Ladies Hour (The Manifesto)

Thou shalt not shag another birds fella. Thou shalt not pretend to be lesbian in a bid to pull men. Thou shalt not be entertained by other womens cellulite. Thou shalt not look other women up and down in a threatening manner. Thou shalt not cook dinner for your male partner, unless it’s an even distribution of domestic skills. Thou shalt not fake orgasm. Thou shalt not pretend to like football. Thou shalt not get a tit job. Thou shalt not claim your favourite film is about a prostitute being rescued by a fascist kerb-crawler. Thou shalt not pretend you don’t wank. Thou shalt not refer to your wank habit and vibrator collection loudly in pubs for the benefit of men. Thou shalt not cry in nightclub toilets about some dick or other snogging your best mate. Thou shalt not refer to yourself as a ‘mans woman’. Thou shalt not refer to menstruation as ‘time of the month’. Thou shalt not hate Rebecca Loos because she slept with David Beckham (hate her because she’s a fake lesbian and wanked off a pig). Thou shalt not be arsed about the weight of other women. Thou shalt not know the tit measurements of people who have no purpose (eg, Richie, Hilton). Thou shalt know that ostentatious sex-sounds, does not make for great sex. Thou shalt not live in rose-tintsville Arizona vis-a-vis the shortcomings of the man you’re choosing to fuck. Thou shalt be able to spend more than half an hour in the company of females without referring to cock, or lack thereof. Thou shalt not walk up and down on a pretend catwalk whilst a sniggering, shit-faced Tim Lovejoy asks condescending questions about your love life on Soccer AM (without twatting him). Thou shalt not feel all other women want to fuck your fella. Thou shalt not know the calorie content of Mars Bars. Thou shalt not let a Media Studies graduate with a bedsit in Croyden, dictate to you that Grey is festive.